


Leap into Love

by eggsbenni221



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: Drama, F/M, Humor, Romance, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-27
Updated: 2012-07-28
Packaged: 2017-11-10 21:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggsbenni221/pseuds/eggsbenni221
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bridget is anxiously awaiting Mark's return from an extended business trip, and what better way to welcome him home than by leaping into his arms...and landing in a whole mess of trouble?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

Disclaimer: The author does not own these characters. They are the property of Helen Fielding. No money is being made with this work, and no copyright infringement is intended.

# Leap into Love

## A Bridget Jones Fic

### Part 1

> I wanted someone like you, someone I could hold on to and give my love until the end of time. But forever was just a word, something I'd only heard about, but now you're always there for me. When you say forever, I believe.- Jim Bricman, "Destiny" 

#### \---Bridget, 28 February---

I'm standing in my kitchen, staring into the refrigerator as my stomach growls in protest at the meager selection it offers: a loaf of bread, a carton of eggs, a bottle of wine, and a weak-old container of leftover Chinese takeaway I'd forgotten I had. I realize I should have considered restocking the food supply, especially since Mark is due home from New York tonight. As always, I had ambitions of impressing Mark with my culinary skill (or lac thereof). I'd even gone as far as looking up recipes on fancy food blogs. It was the least I could do as a welcome-home gesture, but I began to panic when I saw words like crushed rosemary and freshly-squeezed pepper. 

I wrinkle my nose as I open the Chinese takeaway carton and stare forlornly at the shriveled noodles. With a sigh, I slam the refrigerator shut and wander into the sitting-room. Flopping onto the sofa, I reach to switch on the telly when my mobile begins to ring. I bounce up to retrieve it, smiling as I glance at the display. 

"Hello?" 

"Bridget, it's Mark." 

"Mark, I was wondering when you'd call. Flight go all right?" 

"Yes, we've just landed. Listen," he pauses. "I've got to stop by chambers and retrieve some papers I need for an all-day meeting tomorrow, and then I'll come round. All right?" I try to ignore the twinge of disappointment his words provoke. 

"A meeting? Tomorrow? All day? I've hardly seen you this last month. You've been away so much. I'd hoped to have some time with you." 

"I know, love," Mark says gently. "I'm sorry. We can talk about it later. I'll be there soon." 

"I-well, all right." 

"I must go. I love you." 

We end the call, and I sink back into the sofa cushions, dearly wishing now that I'd taken the time to prepare something in the way of an edible meal. I have only a few minutes to brood on my lack of kitchen skill when the phone rings again. Automatically I reach for it without glancing at the display. 

"Hello?" 

"Hello, darling!" 

I groan into the cushion. "Mum, I-how are you?" 

"Splendid, darling. Not interrupting anything, am I?" 

"No," I reply. 

"Oh, I thought perhaps you'd be with Mark. Isn't he due back from America?" 

"Yes, he's just got in-he'll be here soon, so Mu..." 

"Then I won't keep you, but Mark is the reason I'm calling, actually." I wince and contemplate chucking the phone out the nearest window. "Bridget? Are you there?" 

"Mmmhm," I offer by way of reply. 

"Don't mumble, dear. It's not attractive." 

"So, what is it about Mark, then?" I ask. 

"How have you two been? Everything going swimmingly?" 

"Mum, we're fine. What's this about?" 

"Well, I was just thinking, you know, you've been together for some time now, and I'd hate to see you wasting your time in a relationship that wasn't going anywhere and—" 

"Mum, I really don't have time for this conversation," I interrupt. "Besides, Mark's not going to rush into anything after, you know, what happened the last time." The name 'Daniel Cleaver' buzzes in the silence on the line until my mother flicks it away like a pesky fly. 

"Rubbish, darling. That's all water under the bridge. He's got you now, hasn't he? Surely that business is all behind him." 

"Well, we haven't talked about-" my tongue catches on the word-"commitment." 

My mother laughs. "Don't be silly, darling. You know how men are about these things, and that's why I was thinking: well, you know what tomorrow is, don't you?" 

Fighting a rising sense of panic, I mentally sift through my calendar. "I haven't… forgotten some distant relative's birthday, or anything?" I suggest. 

"No, darling. It's Leap Day, of course!" 

"I, uh, I don't follow, mum." 

"You know, February 29th," she prods. 

"OK, and you're driving at… what, precisely?" 

"Well, there's always been a tradition of women proposing to men on Leap Day, and I just thought...". Every time I think my mother's schemes to ruin my life have reached their limit of insanity, she proves me wrong. 

"Mum, I don't… I mean… you can't possibly think… I couldn't, you know, do… **that**." 

"Don't be silly, Bridget. Of course you could. It's the 21st century. People are a bit more open-minded about that sort of thing nowadays, and besides, it's quite an old tradition, actually." 

"I don't mean that, Mum. I mean..." 

"Oh my godfathers! I've just remembered I promised to pop round to Auntie Una's. Must wizz, darling, but do think about what I said, and let me know how it turns out! Byee!" 

Releasing the breath I've been holding, I drop my phone onto the table beside the sofa and head back into the kitchen, opening the fridge and reaching for the wine bottle in the hope of regaining my equilibrium before Mark arrives. 

'My mother is mad,' I think as I rummage through the cupboards. 'Bloody mad. What could she possibly have been thinking?'

I suddenly have a flash of that moment several weeks ago when I'd glanced up while dressing for a party to find Mark gazing intently at me, his mouth half-open as if he were about to speak. He'd dropped his gaze when I'd noticed him looking and hadn't said anything. I'd supposed at the time he'd just been working out a delicate way to tell me I'd been trying to force my shoe onto the wrong foot or had got my dress on backward. He couldn't have been thinking of anything more… serious. 'Bridget, darling, the zip goes in the back, and oh, while I'm thinking of it, I wondered if you'd marry me.' Mark Darcy doesn't spring life-altering decision-type questions on one in manner of ambush during a wardrobe crisis. If he were going to propose, (which he has no intention of doing, obvs) it would be posh and romantic and glamorous like Hollywood picture or similar. 

"Yes, my mother is mad. Bloody Hell, where's a clean wine glass when you need one?" 

"Looking for something?" 

I jump and spin round, just managing to keep hold of the glass in my hand. "Mark! I-I didn't hear you come in." 

One corner of his mouth turns upward in a half-smile. "That's obvious." He leans against the kitchen door, arms folded as he scrutinizes me, and I notice the sleeves of his shirt are pushed back to the elbows. 

"How..." 

"Hang on," he interrupts, moving in to kiss me. I taste peppermint and a hint of the scotch he'd probably ordered on the flight home. He raises his head after a pleasant interlude. "There. That's better. Now, you were saying?" 

"How was the trip?" 

"Long, and over." 

"You look tired," I murmur, running my fingertip along the firm line of his jaw, with just a hint of stubble. 

He smiles. "And you look like a woman who's been sleeping alone for far too long." 

I raise my eyebrows. "Really? Is the strain beginning to show?" 

"A bit, but I think we can fix that quite easily." Mark reaches behind me and uncorks the wine. He pours a glass for me, claims another for himself, and turns back to the sitting-room. 

'Mad,' I think again as I follow him to the sofa, struggling to silence the voice in my brain that's trying out various combinations of our names: 'Mrs Darcy. Mrs Mark Darcy. Mr and Mrs Darcy. Lord and Lady darcy.' . 

"You're rather quiet," observes Mark, sipping his wine and reaching for my hand. "Something troubling you?" 

"No," I reply hastily. 

Mark smiles and takes another sip of wine. "Come now, Bridget. You always were a dreadful liar." 

"No, really," I insist. "It's just my mum. She rang a little while ago, and sometimes she can be a bit, you know…" 

"Completely mad?" Mark suggests. 

I giggle in spite of myself. "Yes, yes, that." 

Setting his wine glass aside, Mark slips an arm around my shoulders and pulls me to his chest. "I've missed you, Bridget," he murmurs, resting his cheek against the top of my head. 

"I've missed you too," I whisper back. "Have you really got an all-day meeting tomorrow?" 

"Hell, I'd forgotten about that for a moment. Yes, unfortunately I have." 

"You've been so busy lately," I sigh. "Not that I'm complaining-I know your work is important." 

"Yes, what was it you called me-'great legal brain', or something of that sort?" Mark nuzzles my neck affectionately. 

"Yes, well, I just…wanted to spend a bit of time with you now you're back." 

"I know, love. I'll come round as soon as I've finished. I promise." 

I curl my legs beneath me and snuggle into his lap, resting my head against his chest. "All right then." 

Mark strokes my head silently for a few minutes before speaking again. "So what's your mother done to upset you this time?" 

My body tenses involuntarily, and I try to ignore the clenching of my stomach. "The usual. You know my mum. I'd rather not talk about it if you don't mind." 

Mark presses a kiss to my brow. "Let's just forget about it then." He slips his hand beneath my blouse, and as I begin to unbutton his shirt, it's easy to do just that. 


	2. Part 2

# Leap into Love

## Part 2

### \---Mark, 29 February---

It's just approaching 8:00PM as I arrive at Bridget's, nearly half-an hour behind time. The day has been a caffeinated haze of droning meetings and stacks of case files that make my eyes twitch just remembering them. I'd slipped away early this morning without waking Bridget, fighting a twinge of longing as I'd slid from bed. I think back to the few minutes spent lying beside her after waking, twisting a loose strand of her hair around my fingers as I tried to memorize the curve of her body in the crook of my arm. Good god, what's coming over me. 

'Get a hold of yourself, Darcy,' I inwardly admonish myself. 'It's nothing. You're just tired, hungry, and badly in need of a proper shag.' 

As I enter the flat, I detect the clattering of pots and saucepans in the kitchen—or in Bridget's case, the general cacophony that foretells culinary disaster. Recollecting some of her… colorful concoctions, I wonder whether or not to check that the smoke alarm is functioning as I head for the source of the noise. 

"Bridget, it's me. I'm sorry I'm late. I got a bit tied up at chambers and…" My voice trails into silence as I pause in the doorway. Bridget is standing with her back to me. As she bends to slide a tray from the oven, the edge of her blouse lifts to reveal a hint of flesh above the waistband of her jeans. A strand of hair escapes its clip, and my palms tingle as I watch her brush it away before straightening and turning to face me. 

"What are you staring at?" she asks, eyes narrowed. 

"It's… nothing," I reply, suddenly conscious that my gaze has been lingering on the soft swell of Bridget's breasts beneath her blouse. As I move into the kitchen, an enticing mixture of fragrances wafts toward me. I open my mouth to speak, but no words escape. 

Bridget frowns and folds her arms. "What's wrong with you?" she demands. 

"I-it's nothing. I mean, it's just… the kitchen." I gesture vaguely around the room. 

"What about it?" Bridget asks suspiciously. 

"I mean, it's rather-that is-it smells… lovely. I just wondered if I'd, well, got the wrong flat." 

"And I suppose that's your idea of a joke?" Bridget retorts. I smile at the familiar note of irritation in her tone, only dimly registering that the jab of her words carries a slightly sharper edge than usual. 

"I'm sorry, love." I bend and kiss the top of her head as I move past to peer into the oven. "Looks interesting," I venture to observe. 

"Don't worry, it's supposed to be green," Bridget informs me. "It's pesto." I smile as I turn to examine a tray of what appear to be stuffed mushrooms. "I hope your refined taste buds can handle it, Mr. Darcy," Bridget remarks in a sarcastic tone as I pluck one from the tray. 

"Oh for God's sake, Bridget. Just leave it, will you?" I scoff, popping it into my mouth. Scowling, Bridget stalks to the refrigerator and reaches inside for a bottle of red wine. 

"Something the matter?" I ask, reaching for another mushroom. 

"No," mumbles Bridget, and then suddenly, "Yes!" She slams the refrigerator door and whirls to face me, hands on hips. "Why are we always arguing over such bloody stupid things?" she snaps. 

"Oh, is that what we're doing then? Arguing? I just thought you were being exceptionally irritating," I tease, wondering at the same time what the hell is going on. 

Bridget considers me for a moment, then sighs and turns away. "Never mind," she mutters. More for something to do with my hands than anything else, I pluck another mushroom from the tray, examine it for a moment, and take a bite, savoring the surprisingly perfect blend of breadcrumbs and cheese. 

"It's missing something," I comment. 

Bridget snorts. "And what might that be?" 

I cross the room to her, bend, and brush my lips against hers. "That," I answer as I pull away. "Just gives it a bit of extra flavor." I watch as a reluctant smile tugs at Bridget's lips. She moves in and slides her arms up around my neck, raising herself on tiptoe to return the kiss. We stand there for a moment, my hand on the small of Bridget's back, her head resting against my shoulder, and I relish the domestic intimacy of sharing this kiss—the fleeting, tender moments that brush past us each day like the skimming of fingertips across the back of the hand. Gently Bridget disentangles herself from the embrace and pulls back, her features cluttered with an unreadable expression that I find disquieting. I want to take her in my arms again, but I settle for brushing my fingers over her cheek. 

"Bridget, are you sure you're all right?" 

"Yes, I-I'm fine," she answers, giving my hand a reassuring pat. "Shall I, um, get you a glass of wine?" 

"Yes, I could do with one." She uncorks the bottle and reaches for a glass. Our fingers brush as she hands it to me, and my chest tightens in response to the touch. How many times have we performed that simple gesture in the course of our relationship, and how often have I failed to notice the lingering warmth on my skin as our hands part? 

"Why don't you go and make yourself comfortable. I'll just… finish up in here." 

"All right. It… really does smell wonderful," I offer as I turn toward the sitting room. 

Settling onto the sofa, I reach to set my wine glass on a nearby table, accidentally knocking a bright, pink box to the floor as I do. I bend to retrieve it and am about to replace it on the table when something catches my eye: scrawled across the top, in Bridget's handwriting, are the words: 'For Mark'. Half-intrigued, half-horrified to see my name scribbled on an object so shockingly pink, I simply stand with it in my hand for several moments. A prickle of unease rises at the back of my throat. 

"Bridget?" 

"Be right there!" she calls back. 

"Bridget, what's this?" 

"What's what?" 

"This… thing. It's rather, well… pink, and it's got my name on..." 

"What? Shit! No!" I look up just in time to see her tearing into the room, a look of wide-eyed panic on her face. She lunges for the box in my hand, nearly colliding with the table in her frantic attempt to wrest it from my grasp. 

"For Heaven's sake, Bridget!" I exclaim as she careens into me. Sighing, I take hold of her shoulders, pull her gently to her feet, and steer her toward the sofa. "Sit," I order. "Calm down, and then you can tell me what the Hell this is all about." I move swiftly past her into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a glass of wine. She accepts it silently, her gaze fixed on the box now cradled in her lap. 

"Bridget," I say quietly, picking up my own glass again. She raises her head in acknowledgement. "Would you like to tell me what's going on?" 

She chews on her bottom lip. "You weren't supposed to see that," she whispers. 

"Bridget," I say calmly, laboring to keep my voice under control. "It's got my name on it, which I suppose you're aware of as it's clearly your handwriting." 

"I know that," replies Bridget. "That just… wasn't the way I'd intended you to find it." Of course not. Hardly surprising, as it's Bridget. 

"Well, as I've already seen it, would you object to my having a closer look?" I hold out my hand, and Bridget reluctantly surrenders the box. I hear something shifting inside as I slide my thumb along its edge and lift the lid. Nestled against a slip of paper is what appears to be a candy ring. I remove the note, unfold it, read, and stagger back a step. 

'Good God!' is all I can think. Regaining my balance, I close my eyes and release the breath I've been holding before rereading the note. 

'You make my life sweeter. Will you marry me?' 

'Good God,' I think again, my gaze swiveling between the note and the candy ring cradled in my palm. My mind flashes back to that kiss in the kitchen; the stolen moment in bed this morning; missing Bridget, longing for her far more during these last few weeks than I've been willing to admit, even to myself. With another calming breath, I turn back to Bridget and am astonished to find tears glistening on her lashes. 

"Bridget, is **this** what your mother got you so worked up about? Is **this** what's been bothering you? Is **this** why you've got pesto-crusted salmon and stuffed mushrooms going cold in your kitchen?" 

"Yes," she whispers. 

"Bridget, I..." 

"Mark, oh God, I'm so sorry!" 

"Bridget," I repeat. 

"I was so stupid." 

"Bridget, are you..." 

"It was just, my mum… she had this idea… I knew it was mad..." 

"Bridget..." 

"She thought, it being Leap Day and all, that I should… propose and… I thought she was mad and so I didn't want to tell you about it last night and..." 

"Bridget, I..." 

Oblivious to my futile attempts to interrupt, she continues: "But when I thought about it, I realized I sort of wanted to, but I was afraid you'd think I was just doing it because of my mum, and I knew you wouldn't want to anyway and..." 

"But Bridget, I d..."

"And now you're going to chuck me and... I'm just s-s-so… sorry!" I feel my chest tighten and quickly avert my gaze. 

'Get a grip on yourself, Darcy. This won't do at all.'

I swallow the lump rising in my throat and turn to face Bridget. Her eyes are downcast, tears coursing silently down her cheeks. Making one's girlfriend cry is, I think, possibly the worst offense men can commit against the female sex, and what makes it so unfortunate is that half the time we have no idea what we've done to turn them into bloody hosepipes. 

I cross the room to Bridget and drop to my knees in front of her. "Bridget," I whisper, gently taking her hands in mine. She doesn't respond. "Bridget, sweetheart, will you look at me, please?" 

Reluctantly she lifts her gaze. "W-what?" she hiccups. 

"I'm sorry if I've upset you, love. It was just… a bit of a shock." 

"I shouldn't have-I'm sorry-It was… stupid," she falters, brushing tears away with her wrists. 

"Hmm, 'stupid' is a bit harsh. Let's call it… appallingly bad timing, and poor execution if you like." 

Bridget's cheeks flush with indignation. "Mark Darcy, you are the most heartless, insensitive, pompous arse, and I don't even know why..." 

I struggle to maintain a neutral expression. "So you're withdrawing the proposal then?" 

Bridget sniffs. "What difference does that make now?" 

"Well, I was just wondering," I reply tentatively, "whether you'd still think it a stupid idea if I said… yes?" 

Bridget's mouth opens in surprise. "If-if you said…" 

"Yes," I repeat. 

Bridget stares back at me, her wide blue eyes still glistening with tears. "You mean you-you'll… marry me?"

" **Yeeees**." 

"You-you really want to?" 

"I thought my answer indicated as much." I smile as first confusion, then shock, and finally joy flit across Bridget's face. With a sound that's half-sob, half-laugh, she leaps into my arms, knocking me backward onto the carpet. I roll over on top of her, catching the bubble of laughter that bursts on her tongue as I kiss her. 

"Mark," Bridget says seriously as I pull back. "There's just one thing." 

Propping myself on my elbows, I gaze down at her. "Bloody Hell, you aren't pregnant, are you?" 

She shakes her head, her lips twitching with amusement. "No, it's just that, well, now we've got to tell my mum." 

With a groan, I bury my face in her hair to hide my smile. "I think we'll let you handle that." 

The End


End file.
